kindness as the deepest thing inside
by Mystical Magician
Summary: (sorrow as the other deepest thing) A beast of magic was accidentally bound to newborn Spencer's soul. His life may have been marred by tragedy, but She was his caretaker, his one constant companion. She taught him to protect himself, and he taught himself to hide. From power-hungry foes, creatures of evil, and the best profilers in the country. It works, until it doesn't.
1. Prologue

_It is in their eyes that their magic resides.  
_ _-Arthur Symons_

The summons was abrupt and instantaneous. One moment she drifted along the spirit paths, the next she coalesced, invisible, above the ritual site. An invocation was more common, a gentler request that left the response at her discretion. Even for her, it had been a long time since she had last been summoned.

A growl reverberated in her throat, unheard by any of the corporeal beings below. Her thwarted slaver was distracted, defending himself against the human girl. The Shadowmen's Huntress, she realized, and identified the Shadowman off to the side, watching the battle. They had existed long enough, were prominent enough in supernatural circles that she knew of them, though had very rarely interacted.

She snorted silently. It was pragmatic, she supposed, that the Shadowman focused his attention on the threat rather than the summoning circle. But though she could not lay claim to human emotions or morality, she was not unaffected by the sight of thirteen slowly dying human newborns. It was sad, and a waste of such potential. If she could have chosen the steps of the ritual, the sacrifice required, this would not have been it.

She prowled, tail lashing as she tested her bonds. The ritual had been interrupted. Just in time to prevent her enslavement to the warlock, but not in time to stop it completely. The contract had been outlined. It could not be void or canceled, and there was no use trying with the lifeforce of the newborns slowly but surely trickling away.

She could, however, alter it.

She could choose. She didn't have to be a voiceless weapon this time.

But she needed to decide quickly, before the warlock died and the Shadowman could turn his attention to the ritual. She had no doubt that they would take her or her chosen host and turn her into the weapon the warlock had hoped for.

This time, when she turned her attention to the newborns, she looked beyond their fading lifeforce and saw their potential. Where they had come from and everything they could be. That was, after all, what the sacrifice centered around: thirteen babies, thirteen days old, with the greatest potential. The power fueled by that potential cut short was powerful enough to bind even her.

She wasn't quite sure what she was looking for as she drifted closer to them. Some were silent, while others gasped or softly whimpered. Some were absolutely still, others weakly twitched their limbs. None seemed strong enough to contain her, no matter how gently she could coax the magic, or how willing she was to protect her host.

One might. His will to survive shone bright and drew her closer. This male, new as he was, struggled mightily for such a tiny thing. Not outwardly, but his spirit was powerful. It might be enough to contain her. Her presence might be enough that his heart would continue to beat.

She allowed the ritual to funnel her into his soul. He whimpered and moved restlessly, like the rest too weak to scream or thrash. It was done in an instant, just before the warlock was killed. Before the Shadowman turned his attention to the one babe to survive, before the chaos of other humans appeared to bundle the boy away.

She settled, curled up unnoticed within the newborn, beyond what magics could sense.

He was her charge now.

* * *

This idea first came to me when I was rereading the Naruto fanfic "She Likes Bugs" by fringeperson, while I was on a Criminal Minds/Buffy crossover kick. Mostly it was the characterization and personality of the Kyuubi, because this fic barely resembles that one, and only if you squint. Plus, I barely mention the Buffy universe aside from maybe setting; a few characters may be referenced much later in the story, but they are unlikely to actually be seen. This idea just sort of evolved and mutated over the months, or possibly years.

This will be a drabblefic, partly because I think it works best that way, and partly to see if I can trick myself into updating more often. It will cover Spencer's life from childhood through a number of the show's seasons.


	2. Orphanage I

_Before you know what kindness really is  
_ _you must lose things  
_ _[…] Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,  
_ _you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.  
_ _You must wake up with sorrow.  
_ _You must speak it till your voice  
_ _catches the thread of all sorrows  
_ _and you see the size of the cloth.  
_ _Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore  
_ _-"Kindness", Naomi Shihab Nye_

The police sent the baby John Doe to the hospital immediately, mentally clinging to the miracle of his survival as they processed the scene. The twelve other babies and the kidnapper were sent to the morgue.

This was a case that yielded far more questions than answers. Thirteen babies had been kidnapped from all over the country, and all but one had died of what the coroner had finally ruled to be neglect. Thirteen sets of parents had been murdered, by blade, poison, and even what looked to be wild animal attacks. No one had even begun to connect the kidnappings. There seemed to be no motive, no common element connecting any of them. The murderer was dead himself, killed by some third party, or possibly a partner, and so they could not get any answers that way. The case was eventually and unsatisfactorily closed.

Information regarding the single survivor was not much more enlightening.

The identities of the other children could be confirmed using finger- or footprints and comparing them to hospital birth records. Baby John Doe was eventually assumed to belong to a couple that had opted instead for a home birth with a midwife. The most likely candidates for his parentage had been killed along with the midwife almost immediately after the birth, and if any paperwork or birth certificates had been filled out, none could be found. No family members stepped forward to claim the baby boy, and further investigation proved that any relatives willing to raise him were not fit for it, either institutionalized or living in retirement homes.

And none knew what the parents had been planning to name their child.

In the end, the baby's main nurse decided to call him Spencer. It was as good a name as any, and the officials hardly cared what he was called as long as there was a name to put on the paperwork.

Once he was fully recovered from the ordeal, Spencer was placed in the closest orphanage with the room for him. It was located in a small, insular, relatively isolated town in northern New Hampshire. The people were superstitious, deeply suspicious of outsiders, and extremely devout Christians. Some might even call them fanatical.

Unfortunately, just a few days after Spencer's arrival, the circumstances surrounding his placement were leaked and the gossip quickly circulated the community. Thirteenth baby and lone survivor of what was most definitely some sort of satanic ritual. It was not hard to draw their own conclusions as to why this one lived when none of the others had.


	3. Orphanage II

Spencer looked up at the older woman as she did something on the counter. He wasn't quite tall enough to see what. He'd never approached the matron like this before. She was frightening and always glared at him. But he'd seen one of the older children getting a snack from her earlier, so it was probably worth a try, at least.

"Please," Spencer said with a hint of a whine. "I want. I'm hungry." Perhaps it was a belated onset of the terrible twos, or perhaps it was just his overwhelmed childish emotions. The orphanage may not have starved him, but he had never been full either. His portions tended to be smaller, and he almost never got seconds since every other child was given the option before he was allowed. He rarely even managed to get dessert. If they didn't run out before coming to his plate, one of the older kids would steal it before he could take more than a bite, if that. Some days, when he was given less than usual and no one else was around, he would check the garbage for edible scraps lying on top.

"No," the matron, Mrs. White, snapped. "You will wait for dinner like everyone else, you selfish child. You are _not_ special or any sort of exception. Behave and stop acting like a glutton, or I will send you to bed without any food at all."

Spencer was a hungry, upset toddler. The flash of anger, of stubborn defiance shouldn't have been surprising. He reached for a cracker anyway, pouting and furrowing his brow as he stretched on his tiptoes.

A wooden spoon slammed down on the back of his hand, and he recoiled with a yelp.

The woman bore down on him furiously. "Don't you dare – "

Spencer hunched over and attempted a snarl, a resonating growl ending on a hiss that She, the Other in him, sometimes used to demonstrate anger. His vocal chords were not made for those sounds, but they were identifiable enough that Mrs. White stiffened and grew pale with overwhelming anger to mask her fear that this devil child would not only attempt such wild, inhuman noises, but that he would direct them at her.

She struck him across the face with enough force to send him to the floor.

As he lay in stunned silence, she reached down and grabbed his upper arm so tightly that it hurt and yanked him up, muttering furiously as she hauled him out of the kitchen. "Until you learn to act like a proper, God-fearing, human little boy," she opened the broom closet and shoved him in, "you can sit here and pray for forgiveness!" The woman slammed the door and locked it.

Spencer curled up in the terrifying dark, sucking on his thumb to silence his sobs as tears poured down his face. His cheek stung and his shoulder and arm ached from his inability to keep up with Mrs. White's long strides. But crying out loud just made the adults angrier, and attracted a more focused, unkind attention from the other kids.

At least he wasn't completely alone. He didn't think he could last if he had been.

She purred for him, a warm comforting rumble, and he slowly calmed down enough to stop crying.

Years later, whatever he might tell others, this would be his earliest memory. Not that everything was blank and empty before this, but anything earlier was mainly impressions built upon constant sensory input, very nearly since birth. For as long as Spencer could remember, he was unwanted and unlovable. For as long as he could remember, She was a reassuring presence somewhere inside of him that might be the back of his mind or a corner of his soul.

But Spencer's first clear memory was the first time Mrs. White hit him.


	4. Orphanage III

"Hey, Kid."

Spencer carefully placed a pinecone in the middle of the line of ants streaming towards the anthill, watching to see whether the ones carrying crumbs of food would go over or around it.

"Hey."

He crouched with unusual patience for someone so young, but it was an interesting distraction. He was just so curious.

"Hey, uh, Spicer!"

A pinecone hit his back, and he jerked his head up, blinking at the two children who had approached him. Tom was still fairly new, but he'd been around long enough that he'd stopped making any attempts at friendliness towards him. Nick had been around for a few years, and was generally content to just shove him around once in a while.

"My name's Spencer," he said after a short pause. His name was so rarely used by anyone that sometimes even he almost forgot what it was.

"Right, Spencer," Nick said.

They were smiling at him. Spencer stood up, brushing off his pants. People didn't usually smile at him. They laughed, often and cruelly, but they didn't smile. It was a friendliness he had witnessed them extend to each other. Maybe they were being friendly now? At last?

His lips quirked up tentatively. It wasn't an expression he was familiar with making either.

She shifted slightly in his soul. But nothing more.

"Do you want to play hide and seek?" Nick asked. His words shook slightly, squeaking a bit in the middle.

Tom couldn't quite suppress a giggle. Spencer watched a little hesitantly, but it wasn't outright laughter. Probably it was safe.

His heart lodged in his throat. He nodded enthusiastically.

Another giggle escaped Tom. "Great," he said. "Rachel's it. The house is off-limits. You know the rules, right?" He turned to wave at the cluster of children watching from across the yard.

"Yes!" Spencer had watched them so often, wishing hard that they would invite him to play. He had picked up on the rules of several games just from watching and wishing. The few times he'd tried to invite himself along, they had made fun of him, shoved him away or completely ignored him. He almost vibrated with excitement at being included.

He could feel Her twitching a little, restlessly, but he ignored it.

"Then go!" Nick said, and ran off cackling with his friend.

Spencer sped to the tree line, not noticing the others marking where he went. Leaves crunched underfoot, branches snapping as he made his way through the woods.

 _Clumsy_ , She conveyed to him, and began teaching him how to move silently and unnoticed. This was a good training game, at least. It would take time and practice to master, but these were necessary skills.

Hours later Spencer finally returned to the orphanage. The other children were gathered in the den, watching cartoons. They laughed when he showed up, streaked with dirt, leaves and twigs tangled in his hair. It hurt, the confirmation that they had never intended to search for him. But his hours had hardly been idle, and it hurt a little less that his time had been taken up with beginning lessons on stalking, hiding, and hunting from Her.


	5. Orphanage IV

Been trying to upload this since last night, but the stupid Doc Manager upload wasn't working. Very frustrating.

* * *

Spencer learned to watch the people around him. He noticed who truly, genuinely believed that he was some sort of demon child, and who simply didn't disbelieve it. Some avoided the issue altogether, ignoring him, and a few didn't believe it at all but either didn't care to interfere or weren't brave enough. Those last ones didn't meet his gaze and only practiced small kindnesses when no one was watching. He soaked up what little decency he could get, but wasn't sure how to feel about them.

The children of the town didn't really understand. They imitated the behavior of the adults, and took advantage of what was essentially blanket permission to vent their naughty impulses on him. It was okay because Spencer was bad, and he was bad because everyone said so.

The orphanage children tricked him with invitations to play hide and seek several more times before growing bored with it. Spencer fell for it every time, willingly, hopeful that maybe this time they really did want to play with him. But he wasn't surprised when they didn't. When he spent hours each time learning from Her in the woods and practicing Her lessons, because no one was looking for him and no one would.

It wasn't a surprise, but it still hurt.

They took to shoving him in closets and other small, enclosed spaces instead, locking him in when they could. Spencer supposed they got the idea from the few times Mrs. White had locked him in the supply closet as punishment.

Like much of the older generation, Mrs. White, believed that there was truly something evil at his core. He thought maybe her punishments were to make sure that evil remained buried, or maybe excuses to vent her fear.

Whatever the reason, he was often the one in trouble for being found in cupboards and crawlspaces, or for not coming when called. On rare occasions the other children might be punished for putting him there, if caught in the act or forgetting to have others back up their lies. But that seemed more from reluctant obligation than anything else.

As much as Spencer disliked Mrs. White, however, it was her brother that he strove to avoid. All of the children did. Groundskeeper and handyman, Mr. Taylor had his own domain at the orphanage, a shed on the edge of the yard. Spencer gave it a wide berth, going so far as to enter the trees on the opposite side of the property and swinging wide to ensure he never crossed the other man's path if his training with Her sent him in that direction.

He hated the way Mr. Taylor looked at him. The other boys sometimes, too, but especially him. Spencer didn't know why, but that heavy stare made him uncomfortable. It frightened him and often caused Her fur to bristle.

He thought the other kids felt it too. They didn't like the man either and stayed away.

But there was proof, a glimmer of hope that they didn't hate Spencer. That someday maybe they might genuinely invite him to play. Might warm up to him.

Because for all that they laughed when they shoved him into small, dark spaces, they never ever tried to lock him in that shed.


	6. Orphanage V

Am I really a child of the Devil?

 _Hardly. No, cub. Do not believe such lies._

How do you know? You said you don't know who my mommy and daddy are.

 _I may not know who, but I do know what. You can never hide your true nature from me, little one. You were born to a human father and mother, just as any of your accusers._

But is there something really wrong with me? Was I born bad?

 _Never. No one is born good or bad, they just are. Do not listen to the superstitious fools. They are just afraid of what they don't understand._

And they don't understand me?

 _Not at all._

Because you're here. With me. And other people don't have someone like you?

 _They don't know I am here. Those dogs and snakes might sense something, and perhaps small humans, younger even than you. But they do not know I am here._

Then why do they hate me? Why are they afraid?

 _Because of what happened to put me inside of you._

I don't understand. You've always been with me.

 _Always, so far as you can remember. But not always, in truth._

What?

 _There was a ritual, when you were 13 days old. It was used to call me._

To me?

 _No cub. It was nothing to do with you. You and 12 others, also 13 days old, were meant to be the sacrifice._

You mean…to die?

 _…_

But I didn't. What about the others? What happened?

 _The ritual was interrupted, but not soon enough. You were the only one whose will might have been strong enough to hold me, or else I would have been trapped and enslaved by other forces._

…the other babies…?

 _Too late, as I said. You were the only one to live._

Because you were with me. You said the people here are afraid. They heard what happened?

 _Yes. You were not yet aware at the time, but I had limited awareness when your newborn self was awake. The circumstances were spread through rumor, and this town believed you were evil rather than a victim and began to fear._

Is that why you don't know who my parents were? 'Cuz you weren't with me yet when they…?

 _Correct._

But, but maybe they're still out there looking for me. M-maybe they just don't know how to find me, you said you don't –

 _Hush, cub…_

Why're you – why – don't purr like that, you said you didn't kn –

 _Be calm and still, little one. I heard your rescuers speak, back then._

My mommy and daddy…they didn't…

 _None did. The warlock was cruelly thorough._

…I'm glad you're here. I'm happy I'm not alone.

 _It is good that you were strong in will, cub._

Can I ever see you?

 _You feel me. You know me._

But I don't know what you look like.

 _I have told you what I am, how I appear to corporeals._

I still don't _know_. How can you look like the black cat, and the white one, and the gray, and the orange, and that tiger, and lion, and panther we saw on TV? And the mountain lion on the cover of the paper?

 _I am. All of that and more._

How? What does it look like? Is it one at a time or all at once?

 _Yes._

I don't understand.

 _You are still very young for a human, and even the elderly rarely do. However, I suppose there is a way you might be able to see me. I cannot come out, but you may be able to come to me._

Yes, I want to. Teach me, please.

 _It will require focus, stillness, and above all, patience._

I can do it. I can be patient.

 _Sleep now. I will begin teaching you meditation in the morning._

…love you…

 _I do not know if I am capable of that, cub. But you are mine and I am yours. That is as it should be._


	7. Orphanage VI

For all that She knew, for all that She imparted, there were some important things that She could not teach Spencer.

Reading was one of those things.

She was still a cat, after all. The Cat. She simply understood the writing She saw, particularly if it was a spell or a ritual, or a language closely associated with magic. Knowing what a thing said did not help Spencer learn how to read it. And they'd both agreed that reading was important for him to learn. There was so much information stored away in books, so much he needed to know to survive in the world as a human, without sharp teeth, claws, or fur.

There were books about traps and shelters, books about edible plants, far away places, and how the world worked. Books about almost anything he could think of. The town had only one small library and one librarian, who was more inclined to ignore his presence than to kick him out. Children's story time occurred twice a week, and Spencer attended it as often as he could, curled up behind the shelves and peeking between the books.

It wasn't enough. Mr. Johnson rarely pointed out which word was which, and Spencer was too far away to see clearly besides. He needed a tutor or someone to at least teach him the basics. He knew the alphabet, but he didn't know how those letters were strung together to make words.

Spencer was going to have to figure out how to approach one of the older kids.

The problem was, he didn't have much he could trade for that kind of help. He couldn't read or write yet, so he wouldn't be able to do anyone's homework for them. And no one was really forward-thinking or trusting enough to be satisfied with his promise to do their homework in the future, once he could read and write, even if they thought he was smart enough to get them a decent grade. He barely got enough food for himself and the other kids always stole his dessert when he had it, so there was no point in offering to trade there.

Spencer thought hard, and there really wasn't much he could offer that any of the other kids would be interested in. The adults had already proven that they wouldn't help him. Mr. Johnson had told him that it would be his teacher's responsibility whenever he began going to school. Mrs. White had said something similar, adding that she didn't have the time for it, especially since he was too young and stupid to learn it quickly.

He lay in bed at night, thinking over each kid in the orphanage and trying to figure out what they wanted, what they needed, and whether he could help with that. At last he decided to try approaching Amy. He remembered listening to her try to memorize the Gettysburg Address, and how often she had needed to return to the textbook when her memory failed her.

Nobody had noticed, but Spencer was very good at remembering things. He couldn't exactly remember for her, of course. But he'd also noticed that she remembered things she heard better than things she read. Maybe Amy had noticed this too, and maybe she hadn't. But none of the other kids were likely to volunteer to help her with something like that either. Very few of them cared about school at all.

He approached her the next day. She scoffed, of course. "Like _you_ could remember any part of the speech, never mind all of it," Amy sneered.

Spencer just looked at her as he called to mind every instance he was present when she practiced the Gettysburg Address. When he spoke, he even mimicked the speed and cadence of her recitations, since that made it a little easier. "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty..." He continued for several more lines, concentrating hard enough that he didn't notice as Amy grew paler.

She interrupted him by shoving him hard and shouting, "Freak!"

It spread quickly. The others soon added 'Copycat' and 'Parrot' to the names that they called him. And when she saw him at lunch, Mrs. White just looked at him with loathing that couldn't quite disguise her fear of his abilities.

Amy did take him up on his offer in the end. He trailed her, prompting and repeating whatever she needed to memorize, and ignored the names he was called and the careless abuse directed his way, the way he was still shut out of their games but expected to remain on the outskirts instead of leaving. In return, after school let out she would sit down with him for a little while to go over the alphabet. He practiced copying the letters while she was at school, and she would teach him the sounds they made, and how to string them together into simple words. Understandably, she wasn't a very good teacher. But Spencer's unnatural memory helped him to catch on quickly, regardless. Before she got too bored and cut him loose, he had quite a good foundation from which to begin. Enough to teach himself more complicated words, with the incredibly useful help of a dictionary.

It was all more than worth it to be able to read. To at last have a chance to learn everything he would need to survive, and perhaps even thrive, with his weak human body.

To have a chance to read whatever records the orphanage had regarding his past.


	8. Orphanage VII

Reading opened so many more doors for Spencer. There was a world of knowledge for him to peruse, all of the survival skills he could ever need, if he could only find it.

He started with the dictionary in the living room of the orphanage. Old and battered, with pages missing, it was still helpful in expanding his vocabulary. He'd waste less time looking up words later if he could sound them out and memorize the meanings now. And best of all, every entry had the pronunciation right next to the word, making it much easier to sound out when the spelling looked weird to him.

Spencer scrounged around for whatever children's books he could find in the orphanage, building up his comprehension before browsing through the library. He became familiar with its organization of books, beginning again with the children's nonfiction, though there wasn't much of what he was looking for.

Adult nonfiction, on the other hand, was a treasure trove.

He learned what plants and parts of plants were edible, during what season, and where they could be found (She knew mainly what plants were poisonous, what could be used in healing, and their magical properties).

He memorized a variety of traps, the blueprints of constructing them and where to do so, though it would take practice and time before his weak, clumsy child's hands could do so effectively (She, with her teeth and claws, had no need nor ability to create man-made traps).

He studied descriptions on skinning and preparing wild game for food, as well as the best ways to construct and maintain a fire (what She took satisfaction in eating raw would make him sick, and he had no fur to keep himself warm).

It was difficult, of course, and there was so much he didn't understand, especially in the adult books. But She was there to help him. To explain and paraphrase and parse it down to the essentials, anything that might help him to survive into adulthood.

He learned even more besides, a little bit of everything as he browsed children's books on anything from history to animals.

Too much. It started becoming too much.

Spencer's head began to ache more and more often. Words, whole sentences, swam before his eyes. Sometimes he found himself muttering sections of something he had read before, which prompted more name-calling and bullying about him being crazy.

It was lucky She had already begun to teach him meditation. One afternoon the pain in his head spiked and became more than just an ache for the first time. It sent him seeking his bed, the darkness under the covers, and She reached out.

It was because he remembered too much. More than he could handle. Spencer's mind was chaos, facts and memories and experiences piled everywhere and spilling over, mingling and mixing randomly. With meditation and Her help, he could organize his mind. Could create his own mindscape, store and file everything in ways that made sense, put everything in what he thought of as its proper space. Make space for growth, and recall what he wanted as he wanted it.

And then once he had his mind organized and a system in place to assist his eidetic memory, She could teach him to create defenses.

* * *

Spencer is about 4-5 years old in this chapter.


End file.
